Poetry and Cinnamon Buns

A north-westerly blows and the ocean churns up piles of kelp and the odd plastic bottle. We have lots of power. I've spent this week working on various projects from a story about my Italian in-laws to an essay about my recent journey from Vancouver to Toronto on Via Rail. After a long hiatus--I even started a new poem.

Today I visited The Moon Over Naikoon Bakery--an off-the-grid gem about a minute from my cabin. I work there once a week. I like standing behind the counter kneading dough while tourists browse through the poetry book I have for sale on the hand-made shelves. I never tell them I'm the author unless they recognize the photo. When that happens, they usually buy the book--perhaps out of pity for the flour-covered author. Perhaps because of the novelty of buying poems and cinnamon buns created by the same hands. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful for the kindness of such strangers.

This week has also been a week of reading novels--two of them--Half of a Yellow Sun (by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie) and The Patron Saint of Liars (by Ann Patchett). Excellent books. One set in Africa, the other in Kentucky. One about the Nigerian civil war of the 60s, the other about a home for unwed mothers in the 50s. All week I've felt immersed in contrasts. It takes me awhile in the mornings (after I stay up reading until 3 a.m.) to remember where I am.

The sun has already started to set and the Sitka spruce surrounding the cabin are awash in golden light. It happens every evening, but every evening I stop whatever I'm doing to admire them. I just can't help it.

Thanks for reading.